Throwing my name in the hat and throwing that hat in the ring
I
I have entered a state of extreme spinsterhood. My life is so boring at the moment that that TikTok I think I like this little life sound is starting to kind of resonate. Yesterday I finished the last episode of The Bear, having drawn it out for about a month, just to give me something to look forward to in the evenings. Today I had so much time to kill that I fried an apple in a pan.*
My mom commissioned me a few nights ago to sew the initials “D.H.” onto a small scrap of white fabric to be attached to a large, grey jumper she has knitted for her father’s eightieth birthday.** The construction of this jumper has been the subject of much excitement in the Rockey household. See here:
“Do you want to walk Mabel with me later?”
“I can’t, Rocks. I have to knit it.”
It wends its way to the most baffling of places around the house. I have found it on the kitchen floor; in the laundry basket; draped sluttishly over the banister. Mabel refuses to be in the same room as it, not only because it has hijacked my mom’s full attention (Schnauzers are incredibly anxiously attached), but because, and I very firmly believe this, she thinks that my mom is knitting a larger, greyer, altogether more charming version of her. Imagine that - the benevolent god from whom you receive an endless stream of snacks and kisses suddenly pushes you aside to create in real-time, with feverish intensity, an absolute fucking Frankenstein, clearly made in your very image. The thought of it makes my blood run cold.
Anyways, I am sewing this “D.H.”, very badly may I add, and I am listening to Karen Dalton and letting my mind drift freely, without boundary or direction, as I might during a brisk walk or the preparation of an elaborate snack. A number of questions, from What’s the time? to Who will be my Valentine’s?*** to Am I good person?, rotate around my mind like horses on a deranged carousel, before the big one, the main one, which is, of course, what the actual hell am I doing, life-wise, lodges itself in there proper.
Volunteer at your local bookshop, my voice of reason opines out of literally nowhere.
I think I’m going to wait another fifty or so years before I start to consider “volunteering at my local bookshop.” Cute suggestion, though.
You’ve always wanted to learn how to ice skate…
Not untrue.
Redownload Hinge?
I don’t have the strength.
Or…
No, not quite right for you…
Or, what?
Well, it’s left of field…
Give it to me straight, voice of reason.
You probably wouldn’t even get it if you applied…
What on Earth is it?
It’s an old dream, it’s likely you’ve missed the boat entirely…
Try me.
II
Lia Rockey
Offside Cottage
Let’s-Score-A-Goal Lane
West Footballton
FB1 111
01/02/24
Liverpool FC Manager Application
To whom it may concern,
I hope you’re well. My name is Lia and I’m writing to apply for the role of Liverpool FC manager.
I currently work as a barista at a café in West Footballton while I consider the next step in my career. Having recently graduated with a degree in English, my skillset lies mainly in writing and editing to a high standard, though I relish anything that pushes me out of my comfort zone. In the last year I have undertaken a number of roles: editorial assistant at a Berlin-based publishing house, private tutor in English, interim chief financial officer at GlaxoSmithKline, and freelance reviewer with The Arts Desk, a London-based arts journalism website.
My long-time aspiration, however, is involvement in the football industry, with the particular aim of managing my own team. As devastating as it is to lose a leader like Jürgen Klopp - and much as I lament that his retirement might come at the cost of Liverpool FC’s confidence as a club - there is a silver lining here, a chance to bring in a new perspective on things. Fortunately, this is an opportunity that precisely aligns with my personal and professional goals. I cannot let it slip me by.
I first considered managing my own football team in September 2021, while in my third year of undergraduate study. After a session in the library one day, I was browsing the sandwich selection in its adjoining café, comparing carefully the ingredients of a Cheddar Ploughman’s and a tuna melt. Get the Ploughman’s, my inner voice of reason suggested, it’s on malt bread, which you like, and it’s also cheaper than the tuna melt, despite being about thirty percent bigger. You will also have to wait for the tuna melt to be toasted, whereas you can just pay for the Ploughman’s and go. Obviously it’s up to you but I know what I’d plump for if I had any sort of corporal form.
I was instantly persuaded. Picking up the Ploughman’s, I assumed my place in the queue that had now started to snake out of the café, and turned my attention to the range of sweetmeats that tumbled enticingly from a cake stand. Get the muffin, my inner voice of reason decreed, it’s triple chocolate flavour, which you like, and it’s also cheaper than buying a variety pack of Oreos from Tesco’s later, albeit smaller.
I was instantly persuaded. With Ploughman’s and muffin in hand, I readied myself for the few minutes’ wait that lay between my mouth and the two delicious treats I had yet to pay for.
All the will in the world could not have stopped me from overhearing the conversation taking place between two young men in front of me. They seemed clean and well-groomed: students, I thought, or young professionals. They each held a Mediterranean wrap, flavoured sumptiously, as the label promised, with lashings of beetroot hummus, soft, melt-in-the-mouth falafel, roasted red pepper, and pickled red onion. That looks really good, my inner voice of reason pitched in, but I’m glad you went for the Ploughman’s.
Shut the f*ck up, I retorted, you don’t need to provide a running commentary on every single thing that I do, and besides, I’m trying to listen to what these guys are saying. I think that Leeds may have lost last night.
“Did you see the match last night,” posed the first young man to the second, in a voice as flat and expressionless as the rolling plains of Texas.
“Yeah mate. Good result. Bielsa can’t be happy.”
Bielsa! my inner voice of reason, undeterred by my outburst, exclaimed excitedly. You know him! You know him! He runs Leeds! He manages Leeds! You saw a bit of that on TV last night! You saw a bit of that match last night, because your housemate is a Leeds fan and you happened to be in the room, and now two guys are talking about that match, the one that you saw a bit of, in front of you in a café! How *censored* cool is that?!
You know what, voice of reason, I said back. That is pretty cool. I know exactly who these two guys are talking about, which makes me feel really good. I’m suddenly a part of something much bigger than myself, a real tight-knit community. Granted, these lads probably don’t want to talk football with me, but it’s an awesome rush to think that, if they were to turn around and say “hey, lady, quick test, what the hell were we just talking about?” I’d be able to reply, confidently and calmly, “well, the match that took place between Leeds and Liverpool last night, of course.” I guess I should watch loads more football, because it’s probably the thing that will win me the validation - male, personal, academic - I so desperately crave.
I wanted to shout from the rooftops. I wanted to sing a song. I wanted to strip naked and reveal a tattoo reading "LEEDS FC 4-FUCKING-EVER” below my left tit. I wanted, most of all, to look the lads directly in the eye and deliver the line, “I know exactly who you’re talking about. Marcelo Bielsa is an Argentine professional football manager born in 1955. Can we be friends?”
Regretfully, none of these were viable options. I confined myself to an inward smile. What a joyful moment, though small in the grand scheme of things, blushed my inner voice of reason. You should get a flat white to celebrate. You like flat whites, and you haven’t yet figured out that caffeine makes you incredibly anxious, so I say it’s all to play for.
I was instantly persuaded. By this time, the two young men had disappeared, and I was at the front of the line. Paying for my Ploughman’s, my muffin, and my flat white, life felt pretty fuckin’ sweet. Sipping the coffee when it arrived took this feeling to a whole ‘nother level; it was absolutely delicious, so creamy and rich.
I decided two things that day. Number one: I wanted more than anything to be a football manager, to inspire in others the same spark that Bielsa, through the vessel of two gangly lads, had inspired in me that sweet, wet day in September. Not, though, until I had completed a second goal, one that felt even more pressing: mastery of the art of hand-crafting flat whites by midnight on my 23rd birthday.
Having recently completed my barista training, inclusive of learning how to make a whole range of coffees, as well as preparing light snacks, from soups of the day to paninis, managing my own football team is now my primary personal and professional goal. And by now, I have come to realise that it is more than just fame that attracts me to this role. Among other things, I like to win and celebrate things with my friends; subsequently, I would like to develop a trademark celebration on and off the pitch, such a fist pump or a big shout of “YES BOYS.” I would also like, more than anything, to channel all the respect I have for the beautiful game into one streamlined project.
Of course, managing a football team is about more than just passion. I am aware that I don’t have quite as much experience as other candidates for this role. I am, however, secure in my vision for the club, and include below some of the managerial proposals I have for Liverpool FC.
The name. I don’t love it, to be honest - I don’t think it tells a story about how fantastic we, as a team, really are. Could we be called something else entirely? How about “Fun, Fun, Fun,” or “Lads United”?
There is no magic more pure than watching Liverpool FC click into place on the pitch. It’s alchemical, isn’t it, and rare, witnessing eleven young lads come together to play the match of a lifetime. One thing I struggle with, though, is the fact that every single player on the pitch has to be playing football. I think this is a waste of talent. I therefore propose that at least three lads on our team should be revising for their undergraduate Law exams, front and centre on the pitch, in each and every match we play.
Let me play in some of the matches. I think it’s really important to let me absolutely rip on the green once or twice per season, so I can get a sense of where we’re at. My preferred position is best friend and confidante.
The football should randomly explode into a celebration of confetti and sweets.
Relocate everything to West Footballton. I haven’t quit my job yet, and I don’t really want to, so I’d have to request that we up sticks and move Liverpool FC to my hometown. Would this be something you’d consider? I am also open to working remotely.
Singing and dancing: we’re not doing enough of it. Is there budget for a team guitarist? On that note, can we encourage our fanbase to sing with a bit more joy in their hearts? I’ve brainstormed a few chant ideas below - I’m thinking we print out the lyrics and hand them to fans before kick-off?
I
You should score! You should score!
You have the ball and you should score!
Don’t be scared, don’t be shy,
Just grab that ball and let it fly!
II
Football, we’re playing a game.
Football, winning’s the aim.
One nil, two nil, three nil, four,
Come on lads and give us some more!
III
Dead of dawn; all silent,
Until from the thick darkness emerged a party,
Grunting and shuffling and wheezing to where the soil thinned and the poppies grew
Tall. And with them came another, housed in a rough wooden box -
Laid on the ground and -
Box splayed open, see the token stitched up inside.
He remembers touching it, last week, last year,
Recalls the soft scuff of foot on weapon, of leather on leather,
Something primal - hot, sick adrenaline worming its way up his throat.
He’s been out of it for God knows how long. All that is left is to
Smell it, topsoil and triumph, slick wet sweat in the changing room.
Bury me in it, he says to his men,
Bury me in the box from whence I came.
Rest assured that I would work between the hours of nine to five, five working days a week, to get Liverpool FC back to fighting form. I don’t even really watch football, so I would have loads of free time compared to other managers to grapple with questions of gameplay and strategy. I urge you to capitalise on the opportunity for growth that Klopp’s departure signifies, and take a chance on a fresh voice championing Liverpool FC’s ethos, players, and - most importantly - fans.
Warm wishes,
Lia Rockey
*Cut up, obviously. To eat, obviously. I’m bored, yes, but not to the point of insanity. I wasn’t just rolling an unpeeled, intact apple around in a pan.
**Said jumper landed in Johannesburg this morning. Apparently it’s giving “Tudor prince.”
***No, seriously. Make yourself known.
Hilarious. I laughed so many times.
I think I like this little blog post ...